I’m Staying At The El Dorado 

Oh, you know it… it’s a quaint little hideaway, across the street from the fireworks store. 

I see you nursing that drink, and it feels like fate. How about we blow this juke joint and head on over that way? Don’t get me wrong—this bar has its charm, but it ain’t the El Dorado… 

Picture this: you, me, a bottle of wine… up on the rooftop, where no one’s been stabbed for weeks. 

I unfurl a blanket so we can stare at the stars. It’s hard to see them through the smoke from the pet crematory down the road. They’ve had a busy week, as you know, with that exotic strain of parvo from Guatemala that’s been going around. I just got over it myself. But it really doesn’t matter if we can see the stars because the spark between us lights up the sky. 

You lie there, telling me about your life and your dreams—how you love Cat Stevens and that you’re going to school to be a pediatrician. Eventually, I zone out and start thinking about something else. I don’t remember what it is, though. 

When my mind stops wandering, I snap back to reality, and I realize how smitten you are by me. I lean in to kiss you, but you pull back, expressing your concern about the open sores on my lips. I understand your reluctance but reassure you that it’s not contagious and that I just burned my mouth on an exhaust pipe— 

Oh, I remember now! I was thinking about how I may have left my garage door open. That’s what I was thinking about before, when you were talking about becoming a podiatrist or whatever. 

Anyway, you start to explain that you have a lot going on and that you don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. You’re so swamped with school and work and that I’m a really great guy and all, but the last thing you want to do is lead me on. 

“I should probably go,” you tell me in a whisper as you collect your things. But as you get up to leave, you prick your finger on a used needle near the blanket. I did my best to sweep them to the side, but I guess missed a few. Without hesitation, I grab your finger to suck the wound and draw the Hepatitis C out like a snake bite. 

You get worried. “What if I give you Hepatitis C?” your voice quivers as you pull your arm back. I give you a little wink, and with the confidence of a distinguished lothario, I say, “Give me the whole alphabet.”

That’s when the lovemaking begins. 

Your lips press into mine so passionately that we don’t even notice the sounds of Jerry’s fork scraping the bottom of that can of ravioli in the corner over there. Eventually, the sound of metal scraping metal becomes the soundtrack to our passion, an accidental serenade that only ‘Rooftop’ Jerry could provide. 

By the time the song fades, we’re drained of every ounce of energy in our bodies. We fall asleep right there. The kind of sleep that only comes after a spirited bout of erotic congress. We got so carried away in the heat of the moment that I forgot to take my ringworm medication. Can you believe it? That is so us! It doesn’t really bother me, though, because you are my medicine. You are my cure, in a way medical science could never be. 

I fall asleep with that thought, holding you with my one good arm, convinced that whatever fungal infections we carried didn’t matter—because we are perfect, at least for tonight. 

But when Jerry jostles me awake with a clumsy attempt to place a quarter under my pillow, I reach for you and feel nothing but the cold, empty space where you once were. You’re gone. Vanished into the night, like a sex bandit. 

My heart sinks. 

I try to call you in the morning, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again later in the afternoon, but I accidentally order a pizza instead. Finally, I try one more time in the evening, but alas… another pizza. 

I don’t press. I decide to respect your space and accept that maybe I’m not meant to be with you. Maybe I’m just meant to remember you. The days turn to weeks, the weeks turn to months. Eventually, the pain in my heart turns into a fond memory of the brief moment in time that we spent together. I realize now that maybe we moved too fast and rushed into something that life doesn’t let you rush into. Life is a marathon, and a marathon isn’t a sprint—it’s a marathon. 

I grab that old blanket from that night we spent together and check back into the El Dorado to say farewell to romance. 

I go back to the roof. It’s peaceful up there, except for the distant sound of gunshots and the faint smell of animal carcasses from the crematory. I sit down in our spot, pour myself a glass of wine, and toast Rooftop Jerry in the corner over there. He pulls out a guitar and starts singing Father & Son by Cat Stevens. 

That song always reminds me of us… 

“To you, the mysterious pharmacy student I met at a bar. You stole my heart, and now, I let you go,” I declare as I light a sparkler for you. And in that moment, I feel the weight lifting off my chest. I don’t need closure. I don’t need to see you again. I’ll always have that night, and for me, that’s enough.

“That was beautiful,” Jerry says as he puts the guitar down. 

We sit in silence for a moment, just two dudes under a smoky sky, tethered to a rooftop by bittersweet memories. I hang out for a couple of hours, shooting the shit with Jerry over a few cans of ravioli before I gather the blanket, tuck the empty bottle under my arm, and head toward the fire escape. I pause, glancing back at Jerry. “Wanna grab a beer or something?” I ask in an effort to procrastinate the inevitable. 

He shakes his head with a faint smile. “I can’t… I’m Rooftop Jerry. Without a roof, I’m just Jerry.” 

I nod and shake his hand, knowing that this may be the last time I ever see him, and I start my descent down the fire escape. When I reach the parking lot, I stop to look back. The El Dorado looms in the distance. I linger for a moment, trying to cast the memory in bronze before turning back and walking off into the night carrying a heart that’s mending and the comfort of knowing that for one night, you and I were bound by a rooftop and the stars we couldn’t see. 

So, what do you say? Wanna blow this juke joint and head over to the El Dorado? No pressure.